Sunday, December 21, 2008


Every mornin
I wake up to paint myself anew.
And the colors
F l o w.
Sketch in dEEP, fearless angles.
These are my transitions.

My soul is like the lightning.
On fire
But beautiful
He would rather watch
From afar
Bless his heart.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

The Conexsh, welcome.

From my journ and a letter to Brody-- 12/14/2008

I LOVE the women I live with. Right now I’m in the kitchen. I’m typin on my laptop over top of a summery table cloth. There’s yellow polkadots on the walls.
Melissa is next to me, reading a buckLONG email from her boyfriend Jeff. Jeffy lives in Salt Lake and they miss each other. They’ve been dating for five years. He just got baptized. Melissa is usually very composed, never spazzes about anything—except Jeff. “YES!” she says. “Whenever he writes me these things I just read them sloooooooooow and make it last. It’s like a meal.” She reads us the best parts. She sinks in her chair and sprawls out in sighs on the kitchen floor.
Danielle’s makin Hawaiian Haystacks because the musical fireside she organized finally happened tonight. No more transposing music or making quartets out of volunteers. This means her dedicated soul can actually chill-out and think about something else—like eating, finally.
Steph is sittin on the dryer, gigglin in her pajama pants with a big blob of Saint George blondy hair on top of her head—that mess is everywhere and I love it.
Danny and Andrea are on the couch making a book of the letters they wrote while he was on his mission, and pickin out baby pictures for their slideshow reception. Every five minutes Danny’s Mom calls to say that she has emailed 783490547839 more pictures of Danny’s childhood, and that she would like them to all be included. Sometimes they hit a sketchy letter and Danny is bummed because Andrea was dating someone during that one.
Now Danielle’s eating. Her freckley legs are sitting all polite and ladylike, even though she’s sittin on the dryer eatin rice. She’s still in her violin-black-dress. Andrea comes in and needs to get in touch with this boy in our ward. “Okay!” Danielle says, kinda blushing. “… I don’t mind texting him..." Danielle has a quietly cute, dang fat crush on this boy. Sometimes, she invites him over for cookies.
“Stephhhhhhh” I yell across the house. “Come back to me I miss you!” She comes back in the room, blob of hair undone around her face, and poses all hott in the doorway. This is a huge deal because if you met Steph, you’d have no idea she had such an attitude. You just have to love her and let her trust you and next thing you know—she’s goin nuts.
Brooklyn’s gone, buyin desert on the Sabbath because I accidentally charred the going-away cake she made for this boy. He has a fat crush on her, but she just wants to be friends. Story of Brooklyn’s life. She’s adopted him and some other terrific nerds from the tech support team at work. These boys are her new “guy friends.” (She had to give up on her our last ones, because one of them was in love with her. Now it is sad for him to see her, and just not a good idea.) Again, story of Brooklyn’s life. So anyway, I charred her cake. She comes back from the tainted Sabbath-violating cake party and busts into the kitchen with us. “Who was that girl with him tonight?” she asks. Everyone joins in. They say they noticed too. “She is not as cute as you, that’s all I’m sayin.” I know it's not about how cute she was, but it might have felt good to hear that. Danielle's still on the dryer. Steph in the doorway. Melissa beside me. My emotions are all over the place these days. But man I love these girls. Love them.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

A knock at the door.

This is just to acknowledge the fact
that many of my pages are withheld from this thing.
Specifically, the ones I wrote tonight.
To post them all would be unfair, melodramatic, and just gay.
I am not in middle school.

I will not be the girl on her living room couch, sending pleas out into the void.
Instead, words like tonight deserve an individual destination.
Before they're copied and pasted for the blank ambiguous public, they should be stated to their subject, bold and unashamed.
But, these words will not be spoken.

Instead, I wrote them down. I closed the book.

It was not enough.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

Saturday Night Confessions.

1. I got kicked out of the MOA last week for sleeping.
2. I hate using my turn signal.
3. I judge MFHD majors.
4. Sometimes I think swear words are funny.
5. I like kidney beans.

I am a BYU English major. I do not want to be "the next Stephanie Meyer."

I kiss boys.

I look like a heff in your skinny jeans, and I still pour bacon grease in my biscuit-gravy.

Raise Up.

Sunday, November 23, 2008


With you I stand here, in the middle of a season.
It is spring.
A long, lingering spring.
Days of pure sun, with threats of cold returning.
With you, in the in-between.
This season floats in and out of greys.
For how long?
There is hope of summer, but for now—I feel the rain.
It rushes over me, and I will not seek cover.
I am true to the overflow of
these clouds-- they too have been floating.

And it is time—to pour forth in faith. To succomb.
To cascade from safe heights—into deeper unknowns.
Falling in the dark.

I would do that for you.

Can you feel me? I am scattered through the movements
Of your symphony.
And within the stanzas of my pages, there you are.

Holdin onto my reality, to our current, as a defense against my pride.
I will not push you away.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

“She is, her comrades tell her, full of romantic error, for what she defines as cynicism in them is merely “a developed sense of reality,” She is almost too willing to say, “I am wrong, I suppose I don’t really understand the principles,” and afterward she makes a secret truce with herself, determined not to surrender her will to such expedient logic. But she cannot help feeling that she has been betrayed irreparably by the disunion between her way of living and her feeling of what life should be, and at times she is almost contented to rest in this sense of grievance and a private store of consolation. Sometimes she wishes to run away, but she stays. Now she longs to fly out of this room, down thee narrow stairs, and into the street where the houses lean together like conspirators under a single mottled lamp, and leave Braggioni singing to himself.”
Flowering Judas; By Katherine Anne Porter.

One day I hope to tell ALL my stories. I hope to watch them blow around in the clouds without embarrassment. Some will glide, some will roar, but none will be asked to hide. None will be confined to specific colors or volumes.

I hope for this because, sometimes, I hesitate on my memories.
Looking back on times when I have I have allowed myself to
reveal sacred parts of me,
when I have
acted out of full-hearted conviction…
I recoil in recollection.
I recall my actions and project onto myself—a screen of weakness.
Often it is because I can no longer identify with the emotion that filled me in that hour. If the motivation is fuzzy—left behind—is it difficult to sustain the action.
I hate the recoiling, because it means that either, one, I have legitimate regrets in me, or two, and most often the case, I have forgotten how it felt to be who I was in that moment. For surely if I could still feel her passion, I would understand why she exploded, why she spoke out, why she flew away.

Instead, flinching, I avert my eyes from her boldness. Her overflow is unsettling to me—it disrupts the accepted atmosphere of safety and half-hearted maybes. And because of this, I see her as dramatic, desperate, and unnecessary.
I shrink back in accusation; I become my previous mockers. I become those who have never seen my world. I echo the sounds of my Father.

One day I hope to tell ALL my stories. Some will glide, some will roar, but none will be painted with invisibility. I hope to remain full of youth, longing, and conviction, to let these three combine into a fire unashamed. I hope to convey that I am this woman.

Monday, October 27, 2008


From Zach Bailey
October 16th, 2008
11:45 am
So I know this is out of no where, but do you think we can be friends again? As much as friends can be over facebook anyway? I had a dream about you the other night and I guess this is where it is coming from. If I have to remain in your past because of what I put you through it, then I understand, but honestly I might just wait another six months and ask you again.

From Lyndsi Shae
October 20th, 2008
3:29 pm
I want to know about your dream.

Why do you want to do this? Really. I need to know that too.

From Zach Bailey
October 20th, 2008
5:13 pm
You should know that its not the first time you have shown up. Every now and then you will be in them. And its been like that since forever, and at this point I just think you will probably occasionally come up in them for forever. You couldn't possibly be anymore removed from my life, and yet you are still a reoccurring dream, or thought, or feeling. Sometimes when you do just sneek up on me out of nowhere, and I have no idea who you are anymore, and I know that its definitely my fault, but here we are Junior year in College, and there are still nights when I wake up after you were in my dream, and I just lay there and think about that for a min. I just don't know what to think. And I hate that. And thats Why I want to do this. I used to know you so so well, and now I no nothing about you, and I'm not saying being "facebook" friends will give me any appreciation for who you really are now, because I know thats impossible, but at least its something.
And I thought about all that for a bit, and then I just decided I would ask you, and if you hated the sound of it, well then I tried, and I would probably try again eventually.

About the dream, and most of the dreams that you happen to come up in. Theres no mystery in it. I mean this was last week, but it was something like this. I was hanging out with all my friends here and out of nowhere you just walked by, I knew it was you, and you knew I was there, but thats all the acknowledgment we gave each other. It was like you were there and I was there, and we knew it, but we didn't know each other at all. Like one of those people that you met through someone else, once a long time ago, and when you see each other you say hey, but thats it. Except we didn't even say hi.

From Zach Bailey
October 25th, 2008
9:20 am
so thats it then huh

From Lyndsi Shae
October 27th, 2008 5:14 pm
I am full of love, full of yearning. There is life and youth exploding from me. Do you remember that? There was a time when all of that culminated into what I was willing to give you.
You had me. You held me down.

I’m still out here in Utah. I study what I love. I write out my days. I am a strong woman, stronger than your dreams. I am free from your influence. The value of this freedom fills me with gratitude. Because it was not easy to find—I struggled and prayed from Christmas to July for this separation from you.
I have let go of my love for you.
I have let go of my anger towards you.

I have let go of any lingeri
ng resentment, and all back-corner longings.
This is why I rarely think about you.
This is why, even in my subconscious sleeping hours, you are not there.

Zach, I labored for this.
I was yours.
And you didn’t fight for me.
Now we’re here, and you can’t come back.

I am happy today. I don’t want to change how we are.

I can think of no reason to give you this window into my life.

October 27th, 2008
5:17 pm
ok. If you ever have a change of heart, let me know. I know you worked to get away. I won't ask you again.

October 27th, 2008
5:50 pm

July 13th, 2007
June 30th, 2007

Friday, October 10, 2008

What you love, you must love now.

"There was that law of life, so cruel, and so just, that one must grow... or else pay more for remaining the same." --Norman Mailer

* * *

So its 3:44 in the mornin and I'm awake-- shocker. I'm wearin HUGE baggy pajamas and waitin to fall asleep on the couch. Breathing deep and placid, I feel my days pan out before me. There is peace everywhere.
I think of the sunrises I've seen.
--Courtney's roof: 10th grade. House sitting with Emily this summer. A million Provo all-nighters my freshman year. Waking up to Blythe, California in the passenger's seat.--

Always, there is a feeling of revival-- if there be any part of you that is still numb, grey, oppressed, indifferent-- it is waking.

Where a sunset would evoke longing, a sunrise conjures up contentment.
Tonight I realize, that I am grateful, alive, young, waking up over and over.

I am a strong woman, searching out my truth.

I am a weak daughter, with hopeful windows.

I am almost discovered.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

remember that time when i kissed your roommate? both of them?

Boo. I feel like my blog is missing something these days.
Its 12:36 in the mornin and I don't wanna do my homework.
I have no sense of urgency.
I want to snuggle.


Thursday, October 2, 2008

Hairspray is for my sketchbook.

"I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yaws over the roofs of the world."

Something weird is happening. And by something weird, I mean something that happens—well, every night of my life.
I sit in my living room, and I’m just wild. I’m restless. I want to drive fast, jump in a river, hear my own echo.

Why do I have this urge to search for more?
There is so much youth inside of me, and love, and sometimes-- I don't know where to send it all.

Monday, September 22, 2008

While you were

.I can feel it welling up within me.
.A love of
. words.
.A longing for
. poetry.
.I have seen the anger,
.The blatant smile of mediocrity.
.And I know.
. That I must.
. Rise Above.

These days I spend hours and hours in books. I read poetry, short stories, the history of America. Is it okay to say that the third is what I dread the most? So often I find myself droning through self-righteous ignorance, only excited when they mention “meanwhile, this is what the natives were doing...” Somewhere in there, the earth began to cost money, and only the "new" world was left. I feel myself more in the tribe and less in the colony.
Turn the page.

Then, without warning, I have woken up from my school work. There are less poems, and more skinny jeans. I’m walkin across campus in a Sweet World Of Dudes rather than An Idea Caught In The Act Of Dawning*. I have become a part of the pages concealed in my shoulder bag. This part of me is lost here. Is it really that bad that I want to
write letters+lay-in-the-grass+impulsively-drive-to-California
more than
wear-girl- shoes+play-hard-to-get?
I mean, especially when the Sweet Dudes aren’t even calling back. Then I remember the ones I haven't called back. Somewhere between facebook-chat and text messaging, the ease of words escapes me. Where has my poetry world gone?
*Robert Frost

A small break to talk about music, and impress you with my sweet sweet hyperlinks.
I maintain the desire to have Don Henley’s children, figuratively of course. How will I do that? Just bask in his writing, adopt a little Eagles' soul… you know.
(Before he went solo The Eagles' Greatest Hits Album was the best selling album...pretty much ever.)
The Secret is-- When you are ten, you do not love The Eagles for their record sales. Instead, you sing them in your Dad's car with the windows down-- him smilin' cause you even knew all the commentary on the live version. You love The Eagles so your Dad will think you're cool.

Ten years later, there are more reasons.-- he loves Native America, just like me.
India Arie likes him. She covers his song. "When I lost me, and you lost you..."
Annnd you know that summer one by the Ataris? "I can see you, your brown skin shinin' in the sun..." Yeah, NOT actually by The Ataris. Go Don Go.
Stevie Nicks was even his woman at one point! Stevie Nicks! Then he married a girl from Texas, and Billy Joel played at their wedding. Ballin. I love this man.

This is the part where I copy out a page.
From hiking Timpanogas, September 6th 2008.

These days when I look in the mirror, I recognize myself. I’m not sure that I’ve ever had problems with that in the past, but the identification is different now. I am happier, more hopeful. There are mountains that I have finally surmounted. I know I am not finished, but I stand here on my path, weathered and renewed, ready and open. My heart pulses in the earth. My words stream out with the wind. They grow up through the crevices in the ancient dust of rock. They tighten and expand with the fleeting goose bumps on my skin. The women of my ancestry are here, watching. Strengthening. Their legacy surrounds me in this moment.
I am the present.

Sunday, September 14, 2008


The August book is different from the others, but I can’t apologize. Don’t give up on me.

Today is the first day of August. This mornin I had peanut butter gravy on my biscuits. I took a boat to Okracoke island where I cooked in the sun lookin at little shops. I rode back with a green beaded bracelet and a resolve to never marry someone who is severely lacking in work ethic.
Then me and my best friend busted the old car to find a place to eat, just me and her. The attendant at the gas station asked “You wanna play pool tonight?” I said “Nope.”
Now we’re at Buoy’s Restaurant at a round table for two by the window. Red tablecloth, bamboo shades and seashells on the wall. We order an appetizer because Katie says this night is supposed to be about strong, beautiful women, deserving a beautiful meal. So of course, we’ll have the fried corn fritters please. They’re out of those, so we ask for cheese sticks. We’re also splittin a shrimp alfredo with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy.
Apparently our pasta comes with a salad bar. Katie picks like a hobo at the cucumbers on account of we’re in college and aren’t used to eating real, varietized meals. I love her.
I write about tablecloths and lemons in my water because I’d rather speak about them than my resurfacing hate for my father—and the way I whispered “f***” in the parking lot of the kite shop after our card declined and my mom said she was tired of living like this. My dad yelled at her on the steps and I walked to the car. “F*** f*** f*** f***.” I hated him today.
Our pasta is so good we ignore our hushpuppies. A humming rises up from the edge of the room. It floats over to me. It is thee Lord’s prayer—a family in unison.

I spread out on my back and feel a cleanness in me. This is my slate. My choices are imperative. My obedience is imperative. I will be happy, if I am valiant. This does not mean there is one outcome. My future, in this moment, is plural. Multiple paths to joy. He will be with me, my Savior. My Heavenly Father. I am not alone and I do not need to worry. He loves me. He will take care of me. And so while it is okay to be curious, I should primarily be comforted. Always.

Saturday August Ninth 2008 Almost MidnighT
Sometimes it pours rain and I can find no way to fully soak it up. I am thirsty.
The clouds sway grey above me and I know they are ready to bust and pour. Why have then not yet broken? I am the sky on these days, full and needing to be more than what I am—needing to externalize what is in me.
To the dry dust of the west, take me. Let me become desert. To thick wet forests. To blazing poverty. Let me be in the landscapes that will discover who I’ve been hiding.

08122008 From a letter to my Katie
Love I’m sittin on my bed with markers, missionary letters and journs. I love you. Remember how I told you that I understand why I couldn’t have come home for the whole summer? I need to be in this place where I am safe are more able to progress. I could progress back home, but I’d have to persevere against all the resistance there. And God tells me its okay for me to take myself away from that. Its okay for me to let my load be lightened. There are other reasons why I had to stay out here, but that’s a big one. Since I’ve been back I’ve been trying to come out of my hibernation and really live in this place. Let myself be a part of my environment.
My first day back I went fishin with Kahili, our friend Jovi, Joe-Joe, Brooklyn, and her sister Jen. Joe-joe caught a fish and I watched it flop around while he took a goofy-face picture. It was agonizing. Jen had it in her hands down by the shore, trying to put some water in the cooler for it. It was thrashing to be back in the river. On impulse, I ran down to her and fought her for the fish. I grabbed her hand and tried to loosen it so he could go home. I was laughing a little, but also tearing up. I couldn’t get her to let go. Everyone said he was too far gone to live. So they killed it. Jen actually knew how to cut it open and gut it, which I was impressed by. She ate it for dinner. I think its okay, she’s poor and has no food, like me. But it was the weirdest surge that sent my down to the river to save him.
After that I sat on a rock and watched the river for a while—by myself. “I could have been writing here all summer,” I thought. I still want to be surely awake, every day.
The next day we went to Lake Mona, which is off a dirt road in a little town 30 minutes away. Floatin in the lake you can only see mountains and trees… no buildings. No people. No manmade anything. It’s so clear I could see my toes under there. Someone steps up on a stump, grabs a hanging rope, and plops into the water. Next to the stump is a tall tall tree with a platform up top. I am scared, but I know I have to jump. I am awake, reaching out of my numbness. Today I know I cannot be among hesitant girls at the roots. I count to three, let go, trust, and fly. Then I climb up to the platform and do it again. I am so high in the air, so exhilarated, so free on principle. There was a chance. I took it. Dangerously. I feel the force of life in thee mountains, in me. I am coming back to myself.

This past weekend was wedding number one of August. Sabrina and David. There’s a few hard parts about weddings for me; oddly enough, the fact that I’m givin one of my friends away is not the main source of my overflow. I am always trusting in their chosen beginning. But it is hard for me to watch families, especially the Dads. Dads talking to the guests about what his girl used to be like. Dad’s last dance with his daughter. I also think about what I’ll be like when I get married, which is way more emotional when I’m watching it happen, when there are temples and pictures and covenants that are undeniably present. And then there’s this third feeling which goes like this… Getting married is a huge step. In doing so you are no doubt progressing in your life. You are moving forward in a definite, black-and-white way. I’m always working on progressing, but rarely do I accomplish it in such an obvious no-denying-it type way. And so, I often feel like my massive efforts to become more are in the shadows of this white dress, once in forever occurrence. I feel very small against a backdrop like this. And then, sometimes selfish for focusing on that.

My favorite part about being back so far is Jen, Brooklyn’s sister. These days I call her Jen Bee. I met her when I went up for Thanksgiving. One night we slept in the back of the suburban and cried with her about some dilemmas she was in. Her and Brooklyn were best friends in high school, but after Brooke left she went a different way. I’m pretty sure she got lost. Her heart had been far away from Brooklyn ever since. Jen came here because her new friends from home had this hurricane of drama and backbiting. I’m pretty sure it was about to swallow her up, so she flew away. She didn’t tell anyone she was leaving until a few hours before she did. Now she lives in our room. She wears baggy pants and calculates student loans and cuts Brooklyn’s hair. She makes friends openly, especially Kahili and Jair. She lets Brooklyn in again. Wrestles her in the living room and sleeps in her bed. They are forgiving eachother, reuniting. In both of them I see gratitude and relief. Jen goes running at night and reads every book on my shelf—mostly Writing Down The Bones. She reads her scriptures and draws and writes in her journal. I know she does not normally do these three things as often as she does here. I know she is on her own revolution. Her presence is rejuvenating me. I am thankful for the comfort she brings.

08.13.2008 1:15 am
I had an avocado last night on my sandwich. It didn’t taste how I remembered. It was too thick, too young? …Too much yellow and not enough green.
I am still trying to be delicately faithful with my summer of healing.
There is a song titled “Sweet Burden Of Youth.” I know what this means to me.
My bones stretch into who I am and I flinch. “Just don’t forget who I was,” I tell them.
But already I cannot remember. How was it to read Roald Dahl books? Avoid confrontation? Fear the highway?
Life tastes different on my front porch, August 13th. I feel too young. Too much yellow and not enough green.

08\17\08 5:02 pm
Don’t you wonder what it’s like to be on fire?
Secrets burning inside an empty apartment on 960 North. Quietly letting the flames spread over you. The forbidden heat of that moment, the danger of breathing too loud.
5:04 pm

I ride someone else’s bike down streets that are, somehow, unfamiliar. The dry wind breathes over my face. I am ready to peel off my layers, stretch out my soul, and spread it over this town like butter in the morning. This is me, navigating through stumbling blocks, pedaling out my aches, sending out poems on open faced postcards.

08212008 whocaresPM
God, please help me to be in this day, to emerge my soul into the mix of youth and what comes after. Please help me not be afraid of admitting what I do not know. Help me to salute the validity of the knowledge I have gained, the wisdom I have earned. If I continue in this habit of discounting it—I will never trust it to be my foundation; I will lack a plot to build upon. This act of ‘building upon’ translates to
Growing up.
Please show me what I can do so that I might trust in your foresight, your vision of my potential. Help me to believe in the possibility of myself, and to remain worthy of attaining it. I love you.
Lyndsi Shae

I am learning to love Provo for what it is. I can only accomplish this if I actively choose to let go of my prejudices. Easier than loving it for what it is—is loving it for what it is to me, for me.
It is a haven, a new space, a diving board. I am safe here, to grow and to find.

Right now I am on someone else’s back deck. I don’t know them but it’s up in the mountains overlooking the Salt Lake Valley. I want to fly over the city. Not like a super hero—too flashy. Not like Tinkerbell—too delicately jealous. Not like an angel—not ready. Maybe like Peter Pan—peeking into the core of the city with curiosity, a symbol of eternal youth.
… Why do we leave our lights on all night? When the businessmen lock their doors, well, the late shift teenagers paid by business men lock the doors—why can’t they shut off the lights? Are we so concerned with proving our presence? Are we afraid of the night’s returning prevalence? Wouldn’t it be beautiful if sometimes, we did not leave our mark?
I would love for this house, in all of its superfluous expense, to disappear. So that gravity may send me toward the grass, so that I could look out and see stars, rather than a cheap imitation by twinkling industry below. Let humanity find peace in being small, illuminated in countenance rather than watts. We could abandon our shoes and ipods. Where have we gone? The skyscrapers reach up as we only reach for more.
Tonight I sit between summer and fall, second and third year of college, apartment 326 and 778, past and future. I miss Brody. I hope for Kennylove to be peaceful. I feel far from my family. I am between lines of definition. I am here, on this deck, alone and in awe of my Heavenly Father. The rod iron chair pokes into my back. My toes are cold under my pajama pants. My hair is dried in summer waves from windows-down air.
I am the profile of the black mountain that stretches to the north and south behind me. I am the rhythm of the crickets in the night. I am the grass on the medians and between sidewalk cracks. I am the beads in the shop downtown. I am the spiral of my tenyearold journal. I am the blue flames that engulfed my scrapbook on July 13th. I am the ice on the trees outside my DT window. I am the keys on Ben’s last piano. I am the juices in my stomach, the cloud under the airplane, the film in my Mother’s hands. I am alive in this night, silent inside the breeze, scrawling through my identity.

083008 8:33 pM
“LooK alive. See these bones. What you are now, we were once.”

I’m layin in my new front yard and its time to talk about my Emily. I love my Emily because she has passion. She is a searcher and a diver like me. She has longing. Convictions. Questions. Sometimes I feel a three generations away from people. Like there is a gap between us I don’t know how to bridge. These are the people who are unwilling, unable to see who I am.
Sometimes I walk knee deep into someone else and can go no further. This is not enough for me. Because I am an ocean. I will let you dive, swim as deep as you can go. I am willing to show you.
Emily swims downward. But that’s not it. She lets me swim in her too. We feed off of each other’s current. I am reawakened through my ability to truly speak to her. Last night on that deck we stayed up til 630 am. We do this all the time, and still, there is more to talk about the next night—more to analyze and question and explain.
This closeness and understanding that we have both calms and energizes me. She has been a catalyst to my own self-discovery.

A few nights ago I was awake in my living room, making the collage for this August book. I layed the 4 books in front of me, studied their covers, felt the near completeness of my summer pages. I am overwhelmed with the effort and life in these books. I see my own growth. This summer was not 2007. Not as revolutionary, but I feel its impact. I love it for what it was. Still exhausted with growing up, I am in awe of life’s constant transformation. There is a song I wrote about already—“Sweet Burden Of Youth.” I know that what means. I know what that means.

What I have learned since coming back home to Provo is that I need to speak truly. I have a constant need for expression, to externalize what is in me. Maybe because it was quieted for so long. I have a natural love and curiosity for people that I need to exercise everyday. I need a job that fulfills me. I need to learn to serve. I need substantial conversation. I need to be constantly finding myself and showing myself to people. I need for others to truly see me. To let me in so that I can see them. I need to feel my own worth, to expand my definition and identity. I need to be free from contention, superficiality, self-loathing. I need to feel real, alive, valid and present. I need to write and then show what I find. I need to loosen the ties on my wild ambitions and crazy metaphors. I need to deepen my relationship with my Heavenly Father and His earth. To show him that I am thankful that I know who he is and who he has helped me to become. I need to find my own sources of rejuvenation, comfort, and energy for future. I am in love with ideas, words, and souls. I MEANT IT ALL.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Blog Invites No Longer Needed.

"Speak now or forever sacrifice your peace."
--Ellen Tien Just Say What You Want

Thursday, August 14, 2008

July she will fly, Give no warning to her flight...

.Some pages from my July Book.

Fireworks 07 04 2008 plus 08 05 08

From our core came the power, with dangerous momentum.

We became an expanding orbit of fire,

A color change,

A spray of sparks through thick southern air.

Beautiful in our creation,

Wild in our assent,

Abrupt in our ending.

We were a flash.

A shimmer.

An explosion that preceded its own noise.

But in the opening silence, there was a golden savor.

You were a sleeping servant to a wilting fire

The striking contrast of black and white-- faded gray

Now new flames shed light on the smoke we have quickly become

We are the aftertaste of autumn, 

Flowing north with the subtle wind.

Charred from the love we made.

Somewhere, our ashes are landing.

July 6th 2008 12:11am

I sit at this desk in our dark room with my book about Africa and my crayon for marking it. A snake light peers down from the shelf and Brooklyn sleeps beside me. I also have a cup from DI, with BYU creamery milk inside. Two apples and some peanut butter in my stomach. I read into the night for a while and sip my milk, conjuring up humidity in my subconscious until I can feel it in my hair and stick to it with my legs. Because in this minute- I remember myself. I’ve been here on nights from all different years. I am home. 

12:18 am

070808 8:40 pmish

It was just my apex break and I was in the bathroom washin my hands, ready to read what my Katie sent to me. I take one look at the splattered counter and think I am not putting my best friend’s letter on that mess. It goes back in thee purse next to my journal and my chapstick and everything that deserves the love of bein carried everywhere in my life. As I’m dryin off my hands I catch myself in the full length mirror, and walk over to my reflection. I side-thought mess with my hair for a second… and then I see my eyes. I look into myself until my reflection feels like a separate woman that will walk out of the glass at anytime. I see her, and I think, I am this woman. I focus in on my eyes until the black stops shrinking into the green—everything settles. I feel God tell me that he loves me just like this. That he is proud of my work and my heart and the intentions within me. I am Lyndsi Shae with my long skirt and unexpected reddishbrown hair. I am alive. I am here. I am real. I am calm. 

070908 2:56 am

There is a sphere I live within, which is sometimes far away from yours, and other days, next door. We all have our our layer of thee world which knows no geographical location. One of us is frantically braking—checking and re-checking the speedometer. Another stares out at thee passing elementary school. Both are reaching to identify with a past that will not resurface. We cannot remember. And so, in this moment, our spheres collide—our layers erode against one another’s boundaries. We could have mourned together of our loss against time. 

Instead, we quietly resign to our separate defeats, because it sometimes takes words for one’s layer to diffuse into another, and ours was a prideful silence, at best from ignorance. Which is really a shame, because I could love the mind behind thee eyes that finally see my sphere. 

So often I am calling to share with others who reply “Where, I can’t see.” 

Eventually… “Hello, I can’t hear you.”

And then, our spheres ricochet in the contrast, we never cross each other again.

There are times when I’m relieved to be alone here. But always I am wishing you could see. What is your name? Always I am missing you.
3:12 am

July  10th 2007 6:26 pm on the airplane

There’s something about Utah I never fit with—everything is square. The roads inline with cardinal direction, all grids. Logic. Repetition. I am not this way. Within me, I burn for the natural—which is not at all anchored in this organized 300, 200, 100, center street way. The spirit of the earth is not mathematic. 

I know there’s someone who would argue with facts and stats that are way over my head. Regardless, this is sure: I am connected to the mountains. In some way, we understand each other—I can feel it. They do not demand attention, but they are undeniably natives, innately many-sided. 

Between the sky and the earth, the sun’s chaotic colors blend without bitter compromise, settling into the irony of their calmness.

From above I see the grids, the human flattened blocks of earth. And the mountains reach up and over them, as if to escape to the godly chaos of the sky. “We will not be interrupted. We the ancient ridges, the raised scars of the earth.” From a distance, I commune with them. 


On the plane, the sun was goin down outside my window seat. I felt myself getting closer. I knew that home would provide me with sparks. Is that the right way to say it? Thee sparks are my own, but lit by home. Like a conduit through which to receive myself. I hope that I will use this fire to awaken me. To fuel my idle state. To activate the choices that should connect with my desires. Everywhere it is green here—and I believe in the power of home.


Reaching out, reaching in.

My heart is not safe here, always at the expense of the next moment--home. A violent disruption of my equilibrium. Internal is bombarded with external. A natural disaster of past and present. 

Every road, a foot out the window. .Wvery bridge, a silent contemplation. A dig for myself. 

Clouds drift over, lake flows beneath, and always I am trying to balance myself between—while trying to find the desire: the will to surrender to this reoccurring imbalance of home.


Today when me and Katie were walkin on the beach, there were almost no shells. I don’t know exactly why this is. Maybe they’re getting picked up faster than nature can discare then. Even when I saw some in the sand, they were only fragments. I often feel just like that shore. 


Squash.Beans.Cabbage.MacNChz.Cornbread. A scoop of butter per square inch. We shove it down in silence, in seconds and thirds. We excuse ourselves to go lay down. Legitimately, this is all we are capably of post-dinner.

What do you call a Lyndsi Shae with no food?


Mamaw’s food is so excruciatingly good, so anticipated in my life… that eating it literally makes me emotional. 

In half an hour, the dumpcake will be done. And oh man, dump we shall. Have mercy. HAVE MERCY.

O7|3O|2OO8 1O:25pM

This week my Dad is back. The one with the angry gritted smile and hateful yelling voice. His voice is not directed at me. I am always sideline, which I feel guilty about. Today he and Mom were yelling as they walked Brad out into the ocean. Mom had Brad’s hand—and he kept reaching bur Dad’s, but neither was paying attention to him. My Dad’s stormy face. He looked at my Mom like she were an animal. Like she’d jjust torn his muscles off with her teeth. “It’s not her fault!” I want to tell him. I hate how they scream right in that ocean, in my sacred ocean. I wish he would disappear from that moment. And all the while, thee waves are breaking into Brad; He just keeps reaching for his Dad’s absent hand. 

I look out into the ocean and fill up with deep, deep red. I know that, any minute, I will pulse into ashes. The waves come over my ankles and I remain hardened in place as the sand repeatedly pulls itself over my feet. “This is the fate my father chooses,” I think. “Refusing to seek more, ruined in his stagnant indifference, he sinks in a self-dug hole.” 


073108 1246am

Tonight we drove through the empty streets of this quiet island. Lacey wanted a book that was coming out at midnight. Corey drove her. Me and Katie in the backseat. I needed to block out the CDE, so I sang to myself quietly. My voice passed secrets out the window. Humidity in the south in a conduit for feeling. It can bring back the night to your skin. Sent it your sadness, your questions, your anticipation, and it will soak up the excess. I was football games. I was on walks with boys in high school. I was running away from home in my bare feet to Katie’s. I was sneaking out to Zach’s. I was walking the dog with Mattie Edwards. I was twenty years old, home for four more days and wishing to be out of emotional hibernation. 

CD switched to radio and chords brought me back. 

“I took my love and I took it down…”

Corey turned it up. I held my best friend’s hand.

“Oh mirror in thee sky, what is love?

Can the child within my heart,

Rise above?”

-- I felt the words of my ten year old self, still needing a voice that I am not sure how to give her. –

“Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?”

“… and if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills, well maybe, the landslide will bring you down.”

I am still far from my full heart.

1:03 AM

07312008 pagesixtytwo

Like you. I walked away from you. There is a great divide that I crossed in the night—while I slept my walls raised up and said “We are here for your heart these days. Locked away. Safe from his winds of anger. Sleep on as we build around you.” And now, I sit towards the sand and can feel nothing but hollow breezes. Even my words cannot find me here. I am petrified, ancient, stuck numb in the ocean.

The waves come toward my face and I hope they’ll crash me back to feeling, tumble me home, wash me up on thee shore of myself.

There are not enough birds.

July 31st 2008 9:29 pm?

The rain silences my desire to understand why it all had to be this way. Because somewhere in me, purer than words, I do.

Each drop rolls in from a deep cloud. 

“I was beautiful too,” she says.

And another “I apologize.”

Stories sail through the rushing waters below—dying words, the one phone call, each a testimony.

I listen to them fall from the sky.

“I remember when I thought my Father’s strength made him a hero rather than a fear. We used to watch the planes fly away.”

“You were an island. I am still a refugee, but the ocean set me free.”

“I flew on my children’s wings.”

“It is clear that I am strong in my finale.”

“I miss the blackberries we picked for pies and the arrowheads from the creek bed… the gravity of my horse and the woods.”

“I am whole in my last moments, ready fro the bridge.”

“What about the circles? We never ended the cycles…”

“I do not love him anymore.”

“I did not deserve it. I did not deserve it. I DID NOT DESERVE IT.”

“Does the music come with me?”

“Finally, finally.”

Here in this moment, each ending is acknowledged. The past is illuminated by the exploding future. Finally, healed, home. 


Blurb from last page 07312008

When I clean out my life—I’m always cleaning out my life. I know I never truly rid myself of these people or words or…

I am a history. A script.

I am aging—changing—fluid…

Unfinished sentence.

I am a verse after verses. I am always re-defining and saying I am this and I am that. 

It helps me.

I am finishing my July book in July.

My Mamaw is proud of me. My Mother loves me. My Katie sits across from me. My Brooklyn will be near me soon. I am a strong woman. I have a savior. I have truth. I’m going to make it. 11:22pm